Fevers
by hazelmom
Summary: Watson is in the midst of a crisis, and there is little Holmes can do to help. Bromance focused.
1. Chapter 1

11

Author's note: I'm still nuts for the bromance. I don't think getting rid of Mary is needed in order to nurture a healthy bromance. I was intrigued by the idea of a story focused on Watson's expertise rather than Holmes'.

**Fevers**

Chapter 1

She surveyed the room with a critical eye. It wasn't just the dust but the clutter and the smells: exotic and unnatural. She shook her head slightly. Then she remembered the cup of tea in her hand and she delicately raised it for a sip.

"I see how eyeing you're my digs," he growled.

Her mouth curled up. "I am thinking that one day you'll be out and I'll be here alone with nothing to do, and the thought of bringing some order to this room is quite compelling."

"Balderdash! A place for everything and everything in its place. It must not be touched!" His brows furrowed at her.

She sighed. "Well, you can hardly blame me. I mean, my fiancée was just newly packed into new quarters when a mysterious fire burned his rooms forcing him to return here to Baker Street. It's natural that one might find me wherever my beloved is, and if I become bored and the smell of this room overwhelms me, I can't say what I shall be forced to do."

Holmes shifted in his chair. "It remains a mystery to me how you are here now when your "beloved" is not."

Mary smiled. "It's a lovely day and my student has left with his family for the country, and I thought that perhaps, John and I could take a walk."

"You're aware of his limp, My Dear. Old war wound. For Watson, walking is for necessity, not pleasure."

She frowned. "I hadn't thought of that. Well, perhaps, we would take a short walk and sit at the park. John could read to me from my Emily Dickinson."

Holmes guffawed rudely.

She blushed. "What is it?"

"Oh, he loves poetry. Absolutely adores it. I say that reading poetry is just the ticket for old Watson."

"Well, I didn't know that, did I? I haven't known him as long as you have. Some men like poetry." She awkwardly smoothed her skirts.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "I'm a bore. Always seem to be when we're in company together. My apologies. Truly, this time."

She shook her head. "You're incorrigible. You have me convinced that we'll always be at loggerheads."

Holmes sighed. "Well, you did just come out of nowhere. We were doing quite well, thank you."

"You were doing well. Watson was doing all he could to keep you in check, but his own work was suffering. It was all about your needs. You can't be surprised that he would break away. If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone or something else."

Holmes stared down into his cup. She was maddeningly frank…and correct.

"Your problem, Holmes, is that you do not know how to share."

He looked up sharply.

She chuckled. "To exorcise you from his life would be like taking his heart, his soul. He needs you. I'm not interesting in doing that to him."

"You're capitulating?" He frowned.

She put her cup down and looked at him. "I want a husband, a man I can admire, a man I can love. I don't want to change him. You are part of what makes him who he is. I don't want to crush that."

"I almost believe you," he narrowed his eyes at her.

"Holmes!" The door swung open, Watson standing there, red in the face, brandishing his cane. "Mary's in trouble. I need your help!"

"I'm not worried about her. Are you worried about you, Mary?"

Watson saw her and his body deflated. "You're here."

She stood up, surprised when he then stumbled over and hugged her roughly. "Thank God! What are you doing here, Mary? You were supposed to be at your lodgings."

"I came to see you," she grunted from within his grasp.

Holmes frowned. "Whatever has come over you, Watson?"

Watson broke away, blinking madly. "There's an epidemic. Smallpox. Half of West London is quarantined, Mary's lodgings included. I was sure she were caught in the net."

Mary pushed away. "That's horrible! My landlady. My neighbors. Is everyone okay? I should see to them." She scurried for her hat and bag.

Watson held her arm. "It's impossible, My Dear. No one in and no one out. They've barricaded the streets. You'll have to stay here."

Holmes leapt to his feet. "Now see here, Watson. That won't do. That won't do at all."

"Calm down, Holmes. I had no idea you would be so bunched up about a young lady's reputation."

Mary rolled her eyes. "He's not worried about my reputation, John. I threatened to clean his rooms. I suspect that he sees himself under siege now that I am interned here."

Holmes cleared his throat. "Neither of you is correct. I mean…there isn't room. When you're seeing patients, she'll have to be in my quarters. Nothing personal, My Dear, I assure you, but I must work."

Watson nodded. "Yes, you're right, Holmes, but I have just the solution. Mary will stay in my rooms."

"That's awfully bold."

Watson saw Mary's eyes grow wide. "It's not what you think. You will stay in my rooms instead of me. I'll be otherwise engaged."

"I don't like the sound of that." Holmes growled.

"It's my duty, Holmes."

"What are the two of you talking about?"

"Tell her, Watson. Tell her your plans."

Watson took Mary's hands. "Nothing to worry about, really, but as a former military officer, I have a responsibility to her majesty to help out at a time of epidemic."

"I thought that the cholera epidemic of 1887 was going to be the end of you."

Watson frowned. "Don't do that, Holmes. It was fine, Dear Mary. This will be fine too."

"I'll go with you, John. I'll act as your nurse."

"Not a chance, Mary. Smallpox hits hard and it hits fast. The work is dirty, exhausting, and heartbreaking. I won't allow it."

"I'm not afraid."

Holmes sighed. "You won't move him, Mary. I never have. He's a man of honor and all that."

"You'll get sick!"

"I have been around many diseases including smallpox. None have taken me yet. Now, we won't have any more fussing. I'm off to Charing Cross station. The medical effort will be centered there."

"I'll bring fresh clothing every other day."

Watson smiled. "Good man, Holmes."

"I shall bring you soup everyday," Mary said.

Watson shook his head. "The streets won't be safe. People are always more desperate during times of sickness. You'll stay here, Mary. Holmes will watch after you."

He gave her a kiss and a hug. "I'll be as few days as I can manage."

Then he looked at his old friend. "I can count on you?"

Holmes nodded imperceptibly.

Watson smiled. "Of course, I can." Then he grabbed his cane and was out the door.

She ran to the window and watched him disappear down the street. When she finally turned back to him, Holmes had dropped back into his chair.

She dabbed at her eyes. "Poor Holmes, now you're really stuck with me."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Now, Mary, I'll be on my best behavior for you. You won't have a single complaint to share when he comes back."

She stamped a foot. "I don't like it, Holmes."

He blinked, "Nor do I, My Dear. Nor do I."

* * *

He immersed himself in the minutiae of his thoughts, trying to dive deeply into study. One of the irregulars had procured two authentic elephant's tusks, and he had ground them down in the hopes of testing the powders against the curative claims made by the natives in India. It had all the hallmarks of a worthy diversion, but Holmes was distracted by thoughts of Watson. Diseases and epidemic were nasty business. There was nothing that logic and a razor sharp mind could do to make a difference in the face of it. The great Sherlock Holmes was powerless: a mere mortal against the ravages of disease.

He'd been through this before. The cholera epidemic he alluded to earlier took Watson for two weeks. Holmes took to pacing the floors during that time. There was no role for him to play, no sleight of hand for him to perform.

Finally, in frustration, he sent Constable Clark out to find him. He paid him 6 quid to say that Holmes had come down with the sickness and Watson was to come home straight away. It worked. A thoroughly exhausted Watson stumbled through his door the very next day. Of course, he was mad about the charade, but lack of food and dehydration left him weak enough to give in to Holmes' fussing. He took to his bed and didn't rise again for two days. By then, the crisis had passed. Watson refused to talk to Holmes for a month, but it was worth it just to hear the knocking about in the rooms next to his.

Hudson's shoes on the stairs sounded, and Holmes straightened up. She was bringing up tea. Tea meant it was time to get Mary from Watson's rooms. He insisted she sit with him for tea and meals. He was determined to be the epitome of a gentleman at all times.

* * *

He made it to the stoop the next morning with a packet for Watson before she caught him.

"Please let me come with you." She was dressed for the street. She must have listening for his footsteps for hours.

He turned to her. This was a moment where Sherlock Holmes usually would say something curt and then disappear, but he found himself to be somewhat softened toward Mary Morstan. Her concern never wavered, and she faced him day after day with a steady eye. She was made of sterner stuff than he'd originally thought.

"It's not possible."

"I'm not afraid, Holmes. I just need to see that he is okay. Please."

"He would be very upset. And he would blame me for not protecting you."

"I need to see him."

He shook his head and put his hand on her arm. "You'll have to trust me on this, Mary."

"Can I?" Her eyes were searched his.

"You once told me that you knew I cared for him as much as you did. I'll bring him back."

She relaxed. "Aren't you afraid I'll clean your rooms in your absence?"

"I've left booby traps for you, My Dear."

She smiled. "I'll be waiting for both of you."

* * *

Pain exploded in his leg every time it touched ground. When he could, he rested it on a stool or a chair or anything to give it a little elevation. He'd been awake and on his feet for far too long. Groans erupted again, and he hobbled into the next room to care for a mother and her three children. Two other children had died during the night, and her cries were a mix of fever and anguish.

A military doctor is prepared for men wounded by bullets, knives, and explosions. Here, he was mopping foreheads and urged broth on delirious patients that lay scattered on every inch of free space in the house. For every fever he brought down successfully, there were five he failed to hold. The children died the quickest. A little boy was watching him intently one minute, and then dead an hour later. He would clean after a hundred battles if it meant that he would never have to see the life drain out of another small child.

He felt robes brush against him, and he turned to find a young nun press a tin of food into his hands. He nodded gratefully and sat on the edge of the bed of the grieving mother. There would be no pretense or ceremony. He hadn't eaten in at least a day, and he would take sustenance wherever and whenever he could find it. There was a biscuit and some dried meat inside, and he took small bites, worried that he would choke if he ate too quickly.

The nun disappeared as quickly as she arrived. She was part of an order called the Sisters of St. Joseph. Their habits were hospital white, and they seemed only to appear at times of disease. He found them to be amazing creatures that worked fearlessly among the sick, offering a level of care no different than his own capabilities.

One of them whispered to him some hours ago that there was a tenement building much deeper into the quarantine area that had been avoided because of the squalor and crime associated with it. The nun worried that there might be sick inside in need of care. The police would not escort them down there, but the nuns were planning to send a team nonetheless. He had rather crossly told her that it was a foolish idea and that he would not allow it. The look she gave him made it very clear that she didn't need his approval.

* * *

The streets were largely deserted. As he neared Charing Cross, he noted a few storefronts with broken glass. Looting always seemed to occur during time of disaster or disease. Holmes secretly hoped he would come across some soulless looters; he was weeks behind in his martial arts practice and relished an opportunity to practice.

At he neared the station, he encountered groups of policemen set up to make sure no one entered the quarantine area. The first few groups paid no attention to his presence and he pressed on. It was only at the fever line itself that he was stopped. It took a three pound bribe to get cops to search the houses used as hospitals for the doctor.

It was another hour before he saw Watson follow a bobby out of a building. The doctor's limp was exaggerated, and the strain of the effort showed on his face. Watson stopped about ten yards from the line. "Good to see you, Holmes."

Holmes moved forward until a nightstick slapped him lightly on his chest holding him back. "You're not getting any rest."

Watson shrugged. "I close my eyes when I can. Is Mary well?"

Holmes nodded.

"You're going to ask me to leave. I can see it in your eyes. I don't have the energy for it, Holmes."

"You're spent. You need to get some rest."

Watson leaned heavily on his cane. "I've been exposed to smallpox before. I won't get sick."

"You'll die of exhaustion."

"I'm okay, Old Boy."

Holmes tried to push past the police. "If you are not leaving, then I am staying."

Watson watched wearily while four bobbies converged to hold Holmes behind the line. "Go home, Friend. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Watson! Listen to me, Watson!" Holmes struggled against the arms holding him back.

Watson shook his head and turned back toward the makeshift hospitals.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I am tremendously grateful for the interest people have shown. I'm sure you know what a difference the encouragement makes. Nuns have shown up in a big way in this chapter. I am not sure why, but they're here for right now. It must have been my Catholic childhood. Thanks for coming along with me for this story. Let me know your thoughts.

**Fevers**

Chapter 2

Watson was deep in the sleep of the dead when someone began shaking him. "Get up, Governor. We need your help."

Watson sat up, looking around wildly. He was still on the floor in the corner of a child's bedroom with a blanket he took from a 14 year-old girl who had died hours earlier. Disease management would have demanded that the blanket be burned, but Watson's exhaustion was too deep for that.

He focused his weary eyes on two bobbies standing before him. "Leave me be. I'm of no use to anyone without another hour or two of sleep."

"The papist birds are flying away. Inspector Horde says to come get you."

Watson shook his head. He had no interest in what birds of any kind were doing at this particular moment, and then it struck him that the bobby in his obvious bigotry was referring to the nuns. "What do you mean? Speak plainly."

"The Catholics are heading off into the slums against orders."

Watson wrestled the blanket off his legs and reached for his cane. The moment his bad leg hit the ground, the pain shot off like fireworks and he was unable to stifle a distinct cry.

"Need a hand, Governor?"

Watson waved them away. "Where are they?"

He hobbled after them out into the street where an inspector was arguing loudly with a group of nuns. Watson gestured at him with his cane. "Hold up. Hold up. What's all the fuss?"

The red-faced inspector turned to him. "These women are crazy. The best thing for all involved is if I lock the whole lot of them away."

"Inspector! Bold talk! These are ladies of God, and their help in this epidemic has been invaluable."

He pointed at them, blustering, "You don't understand, Doctor. They are headed for the slums."

Watson turned toward the nuns. "Explain this to me."

One of the nuns who had earlier told him to call her Michael stepped forward. She gestured toward deep into the quarantined area. "They won't let us go in to help the poor."

The inspector rolled his eyes. "Here we go again. The only ones left down there are thieves, beggars, prostitutes, and foreigners. I won't risk a single life on 'em."

"Surely Inspector, you must know that God will be with those of his children who are most in need."

"They'll rob you and cut you before you can do any acts of charity."

"That's enough, Inspector!" Watson stamped the ground with his cane. "Sister Michael, there is no safe access to the slum neighborhoods. We have plenty to do right here."

"I appreciate that, Dr. Watson, but we are obligated to go where we are needed most."

Inspector waved them away. "Then go! I'll not stop you."

"Inspector!"

The nuns gathered up their bags and started down the street into the unknown. Watson ran after them, the pain in his leg momentarily forgotten. "Sisters, please!"

Sister Michael walked up to him, her pert nose sprinkled with freckles. "We have to go, Doctor. Our order demands that we be where the need is most urgent."

Watson stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned to the waiting police. "Send one of your men in for my bag."

"Doctor! This is wild!"

He waved his cane at them. "Hurry up now! They can't go alone. Decency demands that they have a male presence for protection."

"You won't shame me into this. It's pure folly."

Watson pointed at a young bobby. "You, Boy, run into the building and fetch my bag. It should be on the second floor in one of the bedrooms."

His natural authority reigned. The young bobby jumped up and disappeared into the building. Watson glared at the inspector. "You, Sir, are a coward."

The bobby appeared with his bag, and Watson turned and hobbled after the Sisters of St. Joseph.

* * *

No kind of logic could begin to explain the procession he led into London's ghettos. The nuns noticed the difficulty he was having with his leg almost immediately. Without warning, one sister took his bag from him and two others braced him on each side, using themselves as makeshift crutches. He protested mightily yet they ignored him completely. He finally had no choice but to relax onto their shoulders. The relief it offered his leg was incalculable.

Strangely, these sisters and their immense capabilities reminded him of the women he saw in his travels to Afghanistan. Fierce and strong, these women seemed capable of doing all that men could do as well as doing it more effectively. Most British women were expected to conduct themselves as the most delicate of creatures, and while Watson appreciated the beauty of this, he chose Mary for simple fact that she was capable of the same strength he was experiencing among these remarkable nuns.

The risk they were taking was immense. He could bring no real sense to why he was doing what he was doing, but he knew that there was something about the way Inspector Horde talked about the people in the slum areas that cut him deeply. They weren't people at all to Inspector Horde. He talked about them as if they were completely expendable as how one might discuss ridding the sewer of rats.

Watson had grown up secure in his beliefs about class structure and his place in it. And while he never strayed from what one would expect from a man of his standing, he also never felt that other classes, particularly the impoverished were any less human than he was. There was something so base about the notion that basic medical care was not being considered for a group of people that it sickened Watson, and he suspected that his decision to follow the sisters was as much about needing to separate himself ideologically from Horde as it was about protecting the honor of these women.

* * *

Holmes pulled his robe around him tightly. The pounding on his door was heavy. A glance at crack through his heavy drapes told him that morning had broken. While that might signal action for many, it meant nothing to a man who spent most nights in his many diversions until the wee hours. He pulled open the door, a dark scowl on his face. Constable Clark stood there.

"Clarky, this won't do. If Queen Victoria herself had been kidnapped, I would insist that you wait until ten in the morning to roust me. I'll forgive you only because I haven't the energy to kill you. Off with you now. It'll take me time to fall asleep again so don't come back until noon at the earliest." Holmes pushed the door in the constable's face.

Clark inserted his foot and caught the door. "Sir, Inspector Lestrade sent me. It appears there may be a problem with Dr. Watson."

Holmes turned sharply. "Go on."

"It seems that the doctor has gotten himself in a bit of a jam. One of our recruits was at the scene and came to get Lestrade a couple of hours ago. It seems the good doctor has followed a group of nuns down past the quarantine line. Inspector Horde refused to send protection. Rather, he allowed them to go down into the slums. Recruit said that Dr. Watson or the sisters haven't been seen since 6 p.m. last night."

"A man named Horde sent Dr. Watson down into the bowels of this city in the middle of an epidemic without one member of the police force?" Holmes growled.

Clarky nodded.

"I'll have his head! Where's my pistol!?"

"I have a wagon outside for the two of us."

Holmes disappeared into his bedroom. Clarky stood in the drawing room, his cap in hand, and continued his narrative. "Probably nothing to worry about. The inspector went ahead. The doctor and his Catholics are surely retrieved by now, but the inspector recalled a threat you once made about what would happen if concerns for Dr. Watson weren't immediately brought to your attention. He knows you to be a man of your word, and while this is undoubtedly a false alarm, the inspector feels it's best to avoid some sort of misunderstanding. Are you sure you'll need your pistol? I am sure the Inspector has the whole situation in hand by now."

Holmes darted past him, a shirt half tucked into his trousers. He found his writing pad and began scribbling. He looked up at Clark. "Don't stand there, Clarky. I can't find my pistol. Look around. It's somewhere. I'm obligated to leave a note for the doctor's fiancée. On your hands and knees now, I'm almost sure I saw Gladstone dragging it about just yesterday."

* * *

Holmes leapt out of the wagon before it had rolled to a stop. Clarky tripped off the back and scrambled to his feet, eager to keep pace with the angry detective. The quarantine line had twice as many police this morning, but that didn't stop Holmes from barreling between two of them and bellowing, "Lestrade!"

A head popped up from a group of policemen gathered and Lestrade trotted his direction. Holmes ignored the men pulling at him, content to let Clarky wrestle with them a bit.

"Let him go." Lestrade ordered and four bobbies let go and then collectively landed on top of Clarky.

"Clarky said they'd be back by now. Clearly, Clarky isn't the psychic that we all thought."

"We're assembling a team right now, Holmes."

"Where is Horde?" He turned to look for Clarky. "Have you my pistol? I'll need it now."

Lestrade shook his head. "Now, you leave Inspector Horde to me. He's a poor example of a British policeman, there is no doubt, but I'll handle him."

"I only plan to shoot him," Holmes countered. "In the leg, I think."

Lestrade turned to Clarky. "You will not give him his gun under any circumstances, Constable."

"Yes Sir," Clarky replied, eyeing Holmes warily.

Holmes turned his anger toward Lestrade. "So tell me about this team assemblage. How many steps to that activity? Shall the assemblage of a team be completed by the end of the week? Shall we ever find out what's become of Watson?"

Lestrade turned away.

Holmes bristled. "I'm going in, Inspector. You'll not stop me without a bullet to my heart."

Clarky stepped forward. "Sir, I will go with him. I grew up down there. You know that."

Lestrade stared at the young constable for a moment. Then he nodded at Holmes. "The three of us will go."

Holmes frowned. "You have a family, Inspector."

"And my self-respect. One isn't much good without the other."

* * *

Holmes found his first clue a mile in when he noticed a pail of fresh water on the stoop of a tenement building. Clarky stood guard while Holmes and Lestrade entered. It was on the third floor that they heard movement. Holmes reached for his pistol, but found nothing. Lestrade saw his empty hand and sighed.

Holmes looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "I left it with Clarky."

Lestrade pulled out his own weapon and took the lead. Sounds were coming from a room at the end of the hall. They proceeded slowly until they were at the edge of the door, and then Lestrade pushed in, his gun drawn. Screams erupted. Holmes barreled in after him to find three sick children in a bed and a nun in a chair attending them.

Holmes pushed Lestrade's gun down and bowed. "Our apologies, Good People. We were unsure just what we would find."

To his consternation, the children continued to sob. The nun flashed fierce eyes at him. "It's a shameful thing you did. Brutes!"

"My good sister, we truly didn't know."

The young nun ignored him, whispering calming words to the children. They finally succumbed and drifted off. Holmes and Lestrade stood there the whole time, feeling every minute more like the brutes she'd called them.

Finally she turned her attention back to them. "And what can I do for you?"

Holmes shifted. "You came with a friend of mine, Dr. John Watson."

She smiled. "Yes, I don't know where we would be without the good doctor."

"We haven't heard from anyone in almost 24 hours?"

She nodded. "The need down here is tremendous."

"Where is my friend, Sister?"

"They left me here to care for these children almost half a day ago. All I know is that they traveled on."

Lestrade said, "The streets are dangerous. They should not be traveling without escort."

"We asked but we were denied by an inspector dressed exactly like yourself. We were obligated to serve the poor without your help."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Ma'am, that was a mistake, pure and simple. Our forces are on their way."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "That's good to hear, Inspector."

"Ma'am, don't you worry about a thing. I'll have the police in numbers down here within the day. We'll go back, Holmes. I'll drag them out of the holes, remind them that they serve her Majesty, Queen Victoria, and bring them down here."

"No, Lestrade, you will go. My mission is clear."

Lestrade looked for a moment like he would argue, but then he turned on his heel and left.

Holmes sat down across from her. "Before I go, I have a question. I smell a broth of much potency. What are you feeding these children?"

* * *

Watson rested his head against the wall. Sleep was not possible. This tenement was the worst yet. He found no less than 30 people being ravaged by the pox. The healthy ones were too few to be of much service. The nuns were everywhere, tending the sick. They fed people that most noxious broth Watson had ever smelled, and he wondered at the recipe of such a brew.

It was a dirty building, and everywhere he looked it bore signs of the lives these people lived. Watson found syringes everywhere as well as liquor bottles and hookahs. The nuns undoubtedly saw the same, but they said nothing. To them, these citizens were no more or less than any others. Watson marveled at their powers of equity.

It had been almost 24 hours since they had started this ill-advised adventure. Watson was doing the best he could to keep them all safe, but they were only nominally willing to comply. Each time they came to a new tenement, he shouted things about going in first and securing the building, but they followed on his heels each time as if he had said nothing at all.

They had some sort of system where he was to sit until they evaluated all of the sick. Then he was steered toward the ones in most need. It was the only thing that kept him from dropping in a dead faint. Watson found that he could control almost nothing. He could only react to this new and strange world as it came rushing at him.

**More on Sunday or Monday**


	3. Chapter 3

9

Author's note: Sorry for the wait. It's been busy. Sounds like there are many of you reading. Thank you to those of you who review. It really helps me stay motivated.

Fevers

Chapter 3

Worry had dulled his senses. He was ill-prepared when the two swarthy men jumped out from behind the stoop, both of them armed. He cursed his luck at again forgetting to get his pistol from Clarky who at this very moment was helping Lestrade muster the troops. If only Watson were here to shake his head at Holmes and produce the missing weapon.

"I rob me!"

"No!" yelled one of the men to the other.

Holmes frowned. The man who shouted turned to his partner. They argued. In Italian. Unfortunately, Italian was not a language the detective had mastered. The other man gestured at Holmes with the largest revolver he'd ever seen. Then he declared, "You rob me!"

Holmes shook his head, his shoulders relaxing. "Sorry, Old Chaps. Neither of you quite have it."

The two Italian men began to argue again. They each wore thick handlebar mustaches, and wore the clothes of the peasant, and while Holmes was intimidated by the rather cumbersome revolvers they carried, it was clear that robbery was a new venture for both of them.

Still keeping both hands marginally in the air, Holmes started talking. "Amicos, Compadres. Apprendere? Do you understand?"

They stopped and one of them cocked his head.

"Ah, comprades, no?" Holmes pointed at himself. "I…am looking," he put a hand to his forehead and began scanning the sky, "…for a friend, my amico. Apprendere? A dottore?"

Neither seemed to object to his pantomime so he leaned on one hip and limped in much the same way as Watson. "I am looking for…my amico, el dottore."

"El dottore," one said to the other.

"Y the nurses, ah…enfiermas Catollico," Holmes added.

"Si, si!" exploded the two would-be thieves.

"Where…I mean, uh, uh,..dove?" Holmes threw his hands in the air.

Neither said anything. Holmes remembered that Italians were an emotional people, and so he patted his heart lightly with his right hand. "Amore."

They stared at him and he realized he had no words to add context to his declaration of love. He could find no word for worry or concern.

"Per favore, Amicos. El dottore. Las enfiermas Catollicos. Dove? Where?"

His Italians looked at one another for a moment. Then one of them tentatively pointed down the road.

Holmes gestured with his head. "Grazie!"

* * *

Watson made it into the room under the power of two nuns who had appeared magically at just the right minute. There were no longer words to describe the pain in his leg. Swelling had taken over and he could not bend it at the knee or the hip. A low-grade infection had been festered at his bullet wound for a couple of weeks now. He'd treated it simply, and it would have gone away, as it had always done previously, if not for the constant use of the last four days. What was once a small infection had grown to be quite monster. Watson knew that if he didn't find relief in the next day or two, he was likely to lose the whole leg, if not his life.

Sister Michael slept in a chair, her head resting lightly on the wall behind. The nuns had steered him toward her, but he was reluctant to disturb her. A nun slid a chair behind him and beckoned him to sit. He didn't want to say that the pain of manipulating his bad leg would surely render him unconscious. They seemed to anticipate everything though, and a young nun urged him to lean on her and let her bear the weight. He no longer had the ego to refuse. Leaning heavily against her, he bent his good leg and settled painfully into the chair. Another nun grabbed a footstool and slid it under the leg. He couldn't stifle the groan of agony in him as his body slowly adjusted to its new position.

Sister Michael's eyes fluttered open. "You've come to tell me about Sister Mary Francis."

He nodded. Sister Mary Francis had fainted earlier in the day. Under her robes, he discovered all the telltale signs of Smallpox. It was clear she'd been carrying it for days. "She's not going to see the sun rise, Sister."

Sister Michael closed her eyes. "I feared as much."

"She's been sick for days and didn't tell anyone."

"I would have sent her back. I am sure she felt her place was with us."

Watson frowned at her. "Is there nothing in your lives but selflessness and sacrifice? Is there nothing more? Is there no regard for your own well-being?"

"She's not the only one walking around sick."

"I was not walking around with smallpox. I merely have an infection in my leg."

"It didn't stop you."

"I didn't think it would kill me either," he replied softly.

"But now you worry it will. It will need to be properly lanced to drain infection. We'll have to do it here."

He chortled. "I'm sorry. I am aware that your skills are vast, but I'll need a surgeon and a sterile field."

She shook her head. "You don't have that long."

He turned away from her. These women practiced no pretense. Everything was stated so bluntly. "Don't underestimate my constitution, Sister. I survived three years of war in Afghanistan."

"It'll do you no good now. The leg is bad and you'll be lucky to live if you don't do something now."

"I'll be fine."

She looked past him. "Sister, bring us some tea, please."

He relaxed his head against the wall, but was startled when he felt her fingers at his wrist. He pulled away, "My pulse is fine!"

Ignoring him, she placed the back of her hand against his forehead. Only courtesy prevented him from slapping it away. She frowned. "You're fevering."

"It's not the pox."

"No, it's the infection in your leg. I'd hoped it hadn't turned to fever yet."

Watson didn't push her away. There was only some indignation he could muster to hide his own fears. "We'll have to rig up a wheelchair of sorts. In the morning, we can start pushing back to the quarantine line. I'll hear no arguments out of you. We're spent, all of us."

She surprised him by nodding. A nun appeared with two cups of tea. She took them, handing one to the doctor. Desperate for any relief, Watson drank it down. It took a couple of minutes for him to notice that she hadn't touched hers. The room began to gently sway, and her two brown eyes became eight. He was trying to summon a protest when his head dropped to his chest.

Sister Michael looked up at the waiting nuns. "I'll need clean blankets and a scalpel from his bag. Bring me some boiling water. We'll do this as carefully as if it were the Bishop himself."

* * *

His two Italian friends never left his side. Holmes considered dipping into an alley and trying to lose them, but the neighborhood was not familiar and they still had two guns to his zero. He would have tried another pantomime but unsure that his acting was all that effective.

After several hours of walking, Holmes saw one of them point to a man in a checkered suit sitting on a stoop. The Italians ran ahead and began talking at him. To Holmes' surprise, the thoroughly English looking man answered them in Italian. He trotted after them. "You there. You speak Italian?"

The man stood up and squinted at him. "A bit. I live in the same building with some Eye-talians. I know just enough to tell them what's what."

"I need help. I am looking for a friend, a doctor who came down here with some nuns to minister to the sick."

"Aye, ol' Luigi and Paolo was just telling me about it." The man gave him a crooked smile.

Holmes saw a mischievous glint in the man's eye and he stiffened. "They seem to be leading me nowhere."

The man listened to Luigi a bit more and turned to Holmes. "They know where the doctors and the nuns are at, but they're reluctant to share it with you."

"Why!?"

The man listened again. "They're good Catholics. They say you have designs on those nuns. The boys got the idea that you're in love with them. Worried that you'll de-flower one of them if you get half a chance: a very sinful occupation to be sure. They like you so they're staying with you to make sure you don't get hurt or find those nuns."

Holmes reddened. "Will you please tell them that I have no…interest in the nuns? I'm trying to find my friend, Dr. Watson."

The man squinted at him again. "My eye-talian ain't that good. I'm good at saying things like, "Get your eye-talian ass off these steps," or "I'll burn your rooms if you don't get your under garments out of the loo," but I ain't too schooled in eye-talian niceties."

Holmes gave a long sigh. "Tell them that I want to help the nuns, I want to help the doctor. Nothing more."

The man wrinkled his nose and thought on it some. Then he turned to Luigi and Paolo and said a few things in a very cockneye-accented Italian. Luigi and Paolo shot back questions. A few minutes later, all of the men turned to look at Holmes.

* * *

The doctor didn't wake up when she thought he might. The leg was lanced and she'd collected almost a quart of pus thus far, but he still didn't wake. His fever continued and she'd been mopping his forehead for a couple of hours now. Other sisters stopped to ask after him, but she shooed them off. Sister Mary Francis had passed while she operated on his leg, and a pallor of death hung everywhere. If she could muster the courage, she would send the healthy ones back to the quarantine line at first light.

The light in the lamp was low, but she refused to sleep. If her work on that leg was not good, she would have hastened the death of a good man, a man who'd shown only them respect and concern. It ate at her differently than the death of Sister Mary Francis. The sisters knew that doing medical care at times of disease and disaster was their calling. They lived for these times and they were prepared to die for them. Dr. Watson was a man who had been too unfailingly decent to leave them when he could have. He was dying purely of his own goodness.

She heard a shuffle at the door and turned to tell another sister to go away when she saw a man standing there. He looked to be a proper English gentleman. She picked up the lantern to get a better look. The man was pale with the most extraordinary deep, brown eyes, and he was looking past her to the man on the bed. Suddenly, he blinked and shook his head. When he looked up again, he stared at her. "Will he live?"

"I don't know," she whispered in turn.

He nodded slightly. "He said he wouldn't catch smallpox."

"He didn't. I'm afraid he has a rather serious infection in his leg. I had to do some surgery to relieve it."

Holmes looked around. "Not sanitary conditions."

"I had no choice."

He nodded again.

"Are you his friend?"

"He talked about me?"

She shook her head. "We had little time to talk of anything but disease. He is a very good man though. He is very worthy of the regard of others."

"That he is." Holmes stayed at the door, holding onto it as if to stay upright.

"You followed him down here?"

"I had little choice. I knew he would follow you, and he wouldn't think of own well-being. He's…loyal like that, bull-headed and brave, I suppose."

She gestured. "Come sit with him."

"I..uh, I'm not good with this. I have no medical skills. Perhaps, I'd better stay here."

She stood up. "I need to check on my sisters. Sit with him. A familiar voice would undoubtedly help."

She led him by the arm over to the bed and gestured at the basin. "He'll need to be kept cool. Talk to him. Encourage him. I believe it can be as strong as medicine."

Holmes sat down as she left the room. Watson was flushed, his breathing laborious. Holmes gently touched his forehead, and it was hot and dry. Then he lifted the blanket and looked at the wound. The nun had cut a three-inch gash where the swelling was greatest. Blood mixed with pus leaked into a pan. Holmes dropped the blanket and breathed deeply. He resisted an impulse to stand up and walk away. He needed to pace and ponder and demand from those he depended upon, but none of that was possible.

Finally, he gathered himself and reached for the basin. The water was tepid, and Holmes frowned. Room temperature was not good enough to help a burning fever. Holmes went to the window and threw out the water. "Sisters!"

A nun appeared.

"I'll need some cool water for the doctor."

She disappeared and he sat again. He placed a hand on Watson's arm. "You're giving me quite a scare, Old Boy, and you know it too. You know I am lost in these moments. The explosion at the docks, remember? You had me tied up in knots wondering as to your welfare. Got little else down until I saw to you personally. Quite a distraction it was too."

The nun hurried in with a basin and fresh cloths. Holmes nodded at her. He dipped the cloths, wringing them thoroughly. He mopped Watson's forehead. Then he opened his collar and mopped some more. "Not really used to catering to you, you know. I like it much better when you fuss after me. That's really the more accurate of equations I should think."

Holmes stopped for a moment, his brow furrowed. "I don't suppose it's all that satisfying to have to worry after me so much. It would probably be a more satisfying friendship if I thought after you more. The truth, Watson, is that I do. I do worry after you…just not in the same ways you do for me. In fact, I've been rather racked with worries these last few days."

Holmes spread a cool cloth on Watson's chest and then grabbed another to spread on his forehead. "You know, Watson, I am not me without you. I know that's sort of an odd thing to say, but you are so good in the areas where I am not. You keep me from spinning away from the world; you keep me grounded. I know I sound a bit overwrought. You'll have to excuse my…hyperbole right now."

Watson stirred and Holmes looked frantically for signs that he was waking. Instead, the good doctor settled into a pattern of even deeper breathing. Holmes sighed, "Watson, my old friend, please do me the favor of coming back. I…rather need you. I can't seem to…bear the thought of how lonely I'd be…Think of Mary. She'll be crushed. And I was just getting…used to her. Please, Old Chum. Please…don't leave me."

Next Chapter Friday or Saturday


	4. Chapter 4

8

Author's note: Thanks to all who have supported this story. There will be another chapter or two. I am having so much fun. Your reviews keep me going.

Fevers

Chapter 4

"Uhhh. No. Stop." In a fevered haze, he grabbed wildly at the spoon.

Holmes lifted it high. "That's enough, Old Boy. We're going to get this in you, tantrum or no."

Watson hot, dry face rolled side to side. "Vile. Poison."

"No, it's merely the sisters' broth." The smell of it was putrid and Holmes had difficulty not turning away from it himself. He waited until Watson calmed and then he lowered the spoon again. Holmes got most of it in his mouth before Watson sputtered and tried to grab at him again. Holmes moved out of range. He dipped the spoon back into the thick broth.

"Listen, Old Chum, I know it has the stench of a dead body, but it appears to be quite medicinal. The sisters tell me that the recipe is 400 years old. Making one batch of this takes a good six months. It is boiled down more than 50 times, and twice, it is left out until it spoils. Nasty recipe, that. Reminds me of those old wives' tales of treating wounds with moldy bread."

"Prepostorous," Watson murmured.

"Yet, the tale has survived as have the patients who are taking this broth. You know I'm right."

Watson's breathing settled.

"There's no doubt it's terrible, but I think it will save your life. So after each bite, I'll give you a sip of water to ease the taste. You'll behave like a good boy now."

He propped up the pillows behind Watson, and then he delivered another spoonful of the broth. Watson groaned but didn't fight him. Holmes quickly tipped a glass of water at his lips. Holmes grinned. "Good! We'll keep this up for awhile yet. The good sisters tried to have a go at you an hour ago, you know, but you flailed about like a landed tuna. I couldn't risk their delicate bones to your abuse. So you have Dr. Holmes here to keep you in check."

Watson lapsed back into unconsciousness. Holmes eased the extra pillow out from under his head and eased him on his side. "You get some rest now. The broth and I will be waiting."

* * *

It was late on the second night that Holmes first heard a wagon. He lifted his head from the edge of Watson's bed and stumbled to the window. Outside, he could see torches blazing, horses, and wagons. He shouted a greeting and then ran for the stairs.

Outside, he noted that there were quite a number of wagons lined up. He yelled for Lestrade. The inspector was climbing off the first wagon. Holmes put his hands on his hips. "Well, it took you long enough."

"We got lost in a game of whist and drank too much. You know the drill," Lestrade murmured as he brushed by him.

Clark jumped off the wagon behind him and wagged a finger at Holmes. "You have no idea what he went through."

Holmes frowned and looked at Lestrade's retreating back.

"Once we got back, the inspector started banging on doors. Had to get real pushy. Even barged into the Home Secretary's office. There was talk of arresting him. He finally went to the papers and appealed to Queen Victoria herself. It was a cheeky bit of work, but aid societies, church groups, and public health committees started showing up. Shamed the police force with their willingness."

"Huh! The good inspector did all that."

"And he hasn't slept for two nights."

Holmes tapped his chin. "It won't do to be contrite. The inspector expects more of me. No, no, I'll have to find another way to show my appreciation."

"Did you find Dr. Watson, Sir? We've been quite worried."

"As well you should. He's quite sick but not from the pox. He has a large infection in his leg."

"Is it deadly?"

Holmes turned to him. "If we don't get him out of here and to the proper facilities, it will be. I need you to find me a wagon to haul him back to civilization."

Clarky looked around. "I reckon these wagons will be empty in a few hours. It shouldn't be a problem, Sir."

Holmes found his way to the steps and sat down. It was a drain on all involved. Every last one of them would benefit from a month in a sanitarium. Still, it surprised him how lightheaded he was feeling.

* * *

His chest rose and dropped heavily. His body felt wet, a musky odor wafted up from his skin. He opened his eyes to the daylight. The freckles of Sister Michael smiled down at him. "Your fever has broken, Dr. Watson."

He struggled to his elbows and noted with some mortification that his shirt was entirely laid open. Sweat glistened on the hair on his chest. He looked for a blanket but the nun held his arm firmly. "Your body needs to cool, Doctor. Let it be."

"My own fiancée has yet to see me like this."

"I am a nun not a woman who thinks of earthly things."

Watson looked around. "Where's Holmes?"

"He is busy readying a wagon for you."

"They've come."

She smiled. "The neighborhood is buzzing with food, medicine, and blankets."

"You'll come with me. All of you. This mission is over. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, we'll come. We've done God's work and it's time to rest."

A nun popped into the room with a fresh basin of water. Watson threw an arm across his chest. "Must I be on display?!"

"You'll need a bath before we put you on the wagon. You smell like an old sock."

"Give me a rag. I can bathe myself."

Sister Michael shook her head. "You're as weak as a kitten."

"I'll have my dignity, Sister."

A familiar figure leaned heavily against the doorframe. "Ah, as naked as a baby on his first day. I don't advise arguing with the sister, Old Fellow."

Watson couldn't hide the grin spreading across his face. "Holmes!"

"You'll let the sister bathe you, and I'll stay to make sure your virtue is protected."

"You're no less a tyrant than she is, you old cock."

He smiled. "Get your bath now like a good patient. Then we'll get you home."

Watson complained good-naturedly as the nun scrubbed him thoroughly. It was a good day, and he didn't notice that his best friend eased into a chair with the caution of a man many years his senior.

* * *

Holmes harangued Lestrade until he agreed to ride back with them. In the back of the wagon, he spurred Clarky on to regale them with tales of Lestrade's efforts. Lestrade blushed and said nothing while both Holmes and Watson shook their heads in admiration and occasionally uttered exclamations of "Extraordinary, Inspector!", "The queen herself, you say!", and "Good Show!"

Lestrade fell dead asleep on his constable's shoulder, but Clarky did nothing but make sure the inspector was comfortable. Watson noticed that Holmes was fighting sleep himself. The great detective seemed preoccupied with the sleeve of his right arm. While Holmes was the great observer of the world, Watson held the distinction only as the world's best observer of Holmes. He waited until Holmes' chin rested on his chest, and then he reached over and tugged on the sleeve.

On the wrist, Watson saw two telltale spots. He drew in breath sharply.

Holmes' eyes popped open and he pulled his arm away. "It's okay, Watson. I'll get off at the quarantine line. There'll be good doctors and nurses there."

"You had no business here, Holmes. You've never been exposed. I was a fool not to think about what you might do."

"It's sure to be a mild case."

Watson narrowed his eyes. "With you, nothing is minor. I have seen you through illness before. All of the abuse you do to your body shows up every time you get sick."

"Stop fussing, Mother hen."

Clarky looked up from where he was dozing. "Do you Sirs need anything?"

"No, Clarky," Watson hissed sharply. They waited until Clark drifted off again. Then Watson reached over and grabbed Holmes' wrist. "You'll hide this. You will not tell anyone."

"I won't break quarantine, Watson."

"Enough! You're the patient now and you'll do as I say."

Holmes scoffed. "You broke a fever less than 7 hours ago."

With great effort, Watson rose up on his elbows. "I'm your physician, Holmes, and I'm taking you home."

"Use reason!" Holmes hissed.

Clarky shifted and they froze until he settled again. "You're going home, Holmes. It's where you belong. You'll infect no one. There is no better quarantine than our digs at Baker Street."

"And you on your bad leg, infection still oozing out of the wound. How will you help me?"

"The leg feels better. No arguments! My things are there. My medicines. We'll send Mary and Mrs. Hudson out. I'll have little to do but make sure you get your rest."

"It's impossible, Old Friend. At the line, we must say good-bye."

Holmes' head grew heavy on Watson's shoulder. The good doctor let his breathing fall in rhythm with Holmes. He had the strength to do very little at the moment but clamp his hand over Holmes' wrist and stare out the back of the wagon.

* * *

Next chapter by Tuesday


	5. Chapter 5

15

Author's Note: This is coming to you a little early. I had some work I wanted to avoid. I have to tell you that there is some irony to my last name that I will reveal to you in the last chapter. For now, enjoy the bromance. Clearly, you are aware that reviews make a difference. I hope you continue telling me what you think.

Fevers

Chapter 5

"Easy now, Holmes. I've got ya'."

Watson shook his head, trying to lose the exhaustion that had settled so deeply.

"We'll make sure you get the best care possible."

Watson forced his eyes open and twisted his body toward the voices. The pain in his leg exploded and he howled.

"That's alright, Dr. Watson, we'll be to you in just a minute." Clarky patted his shoulder. The constable stood outside the wagon. Holmes stood there too, propped up on Lestrade's shoulder.

Watson blinked. "What the devil! Put him back in here. We're going to Baker Street."

Lestrade shook his head. "Queen Victoria herself couldn't pass this line if she was carrying spots."

"It's not smallpox!" Watson tried to sit up and the electricity of the movement shook his body.

"For God's sakes, Watson, sit still." Holmes managed to inject some energy into his voice. "They know. I showed them. It is here that I stay."

Watson considered this for a moment. "Okay, then we stay. I'll need someone to lift me out of here."

Holmes shook his head. "Don't listen to him, Inspector. His own recovery will be compromised. Take him home. His fiancée is there. She'll see to his needs."

"I'm not a child! If I say I want out of this wagon, I mean it." Watson started dragging himself to the back.

Constable Clark hurried over and secured the flap. "I'm sorry, Doctor. We're going to take you home."

"I am his physician!"

Holmes nodded to Lestrade, and the inspector brought him up to the wagon. Holmes put a hand on Watson's shoulder. "It's okay now, Old Boy. I'll get good care. The inspector will see to it."

"Indeed I will." Lestrade nodded.

Holmes continued. "I know you. You won't get better without proper rest, and you can't get that here, fussing like the old mother hen you are. Go home. Mary's been waiting. You can't do this to her, you know. She deserves better than a fiancée who's always in harm's way."

"I'm your doctor, Holmes. They don't know you."

"I've got the last of Sister Michael's broth. You're only mad that you'll not have the pleasure of feeding it to me."

"Perhaps, I could arrange for a photographer. We'll post it above the fireplace."

Holmes squeezed his shoulder. "There's my old friend now. We'll both be as right as rain in a few days."

Watson clamped his hand over Holmes'. "You'll do everything they say. Drink every bit of that cesspool of a broth. Insist on plenty of liquids. Get a good bed and complain like the Duke of North Cumberland if you get any less attention than the next fellow."

Holmes smiled.

Watson pointed a finger at Lestrade. "You'll watch him. If there is the tiniest worry, I'll need to know. I'm still his doctor. You'll not forget that."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll have Clarky here give you regular updates."

"I don't like it." Watson frowned.

Holmes let go, stepped back, and gestured to Clark. "Get him home now. But you hit a pothole with his leg like it is, and I'll have your head."

Clark swung himself into the back again and signaled to the driver. The wagon jerked forward and Watson grimaced, but he hung on, watching Holmes and Lestrade turn and slowly make their way to the aid station. The wagon lurched as it turned the corner and Watson bellowed his discomfort.

* * *

The nurse pinched her nose with two fingers while she carried the steaming cup to the doctor. "He insists that we feed him this. Says it's medicinal."

The doctor wrinkled his nose. "What in the name of all that's holy is this?"

"The gentleman says he got it off a Catholic nun with the Sisters of St. Joseph."

He rolled his eyes. "Sister Michael and her gang of spiritual wenches. What they practice is closer to witchcraft than anything we modern practitioners recognize as medicine."

"He's quite insistent."

"He has a fever, Nurse. His requests are delusional."

"I am not to feed this to him then."

"Not unless you plan to answer at his inquest. The last thing the man needs is spoiled soup. Throw it all out. We'll none of us be responsible for it."

* * *

"John, just another spoonful."

He grunted at her impatiently. Once the spoon was free of his mouth, he scowled at her. "I am not a child, Mary."

She pursed her lips. "That's certainly true. If you were a child, I would have rapped your knuckles by now and wiped that sullen look right off your face."

"I feel better," he mumbled.

"You've only been home for three days and your skin still looks the color of death. What do you expect me to do?" Her blue eyes filled with tears.

His face softened and he reached for her hand. "I'm a wretch. It's best you know it now. You'll be marrying a sinful creature to be sure."

She pulled away, tears falling. "I can't make you happy, John. I try everything."

"I'm a horrible patient. Plus, when Clarky was here yesterday, he was absolutely useless. He could tell me almost nothing."

"You're always thinking of him."

"Of course, I am. He has smallpox, and I'm not there to help."

"I'm keeping you from him."

"Not hardly, my dear."

"It'll always be like this though. I will forever be in competition with Holmes for your affections."

Watson guffawed. "I wouldn't say that. I like you for very different reasons than I do Holmes."

She looked away.

"Mary, one of the reasons I fell in love with you is that I believe that you're generous and brave enough to love me and still make room for him."

"Oh, John." She got up and walked to the window.

"I know him so well and he knows me. We accept each other as we are. When he has a case, I feel alive. I am part of righting wrongs. He's the genius, but he needs me to give him direction, keep him focused. I complete him and together, we accomplish the most extraordinary things."

She let her fingers play on the windowpane but said nothing.

"You can make me choose, and I will choose you. I will do it because I believe it's the right thing to do, but…it will be at a price."

"Every woman wants to be enough for her husband."

He sat up as straight as his stiff body allowed. "You are enough for me, Mary."

"John, if it wasn't just Holmes sick. If I were too, and you could only go to one of us, who would you choose?"

He sat quietly for a moment. "I suppose I would go to whichever of you needed me most."

She shook her head.

"That was…I should have said…I'm sorry."

She turned. "I think that might be what I love best about you. You have no capacity for pretense. You are exactly what I saw the first day: loyal, brave, honest, caring. You don't know how to be anything else."

His brow furrowed. "Is that good or bad?"

"You settle for nothing but the best out of yourself. You settle for nothing but the best out of your wife."

"Mary?"

"The truth is I can be generous enough to let you have both of us. Sometimes I slip, I suppose. The nights that you were gone were very hard for me. It was hard for me too that he was the one who could go to you. Believe me when I tell you that the fairer sex does not have the fairer life."

He reached out his arm. "Come here, Mary. I believe that my heart bursts every time I look at you."

She let him pull her in. "It's okay to love both of us."

"Thank you," he held her to him.

"You're scared for him. I can feel the tension in your body."

"It's like I'm breathing fear, Mary. I don't know how to just lie here and not help him."

* * *

She wrapped her shawl tightly around her as she approached the quarantine line. She'd taken her time and observed from afar, and now she walked with as much confidence as she could manage.

"Miss! Miss!"

She nodded. "I'm due with the London Medical Aid Society. I believe they have a station behind your lines."

"You ain't dressed like none of the nurses."

She swallowed. "I…my uniform is inside. Please…they are expecting me."

"Ain't found too many eager to get in."

She looked down and hurried past him. Within the station, she found doctors and nurses walking amidst rows and rows of cots that extended to the far wall. They all seemed to be moving with such purpose. She knew she would stand out unless she did the same. She dropped her coat on a chair, grabbed an apron from a table, and wrapped it around tightly.

Groans and cries rose from most of the cots. Her heart caught at the looks of fear and desperation she saw in the faces of the victims. She had to steady her breathing as the life of a governess does little to prepare one for a calamity of this scale. She heard someone calling for a nurse but she kept looking in front of her. If she stopped, she knew she would never find him.

She must wandered the better of half an hour before she finally found him curled up on a cot, face to the wall. He was shaking and she felt the heat radiating from him when she sat down at his side. "Holmes," she said, shaking him lightly. "Holmes."

He finally turned and looked at her with glassy eyes. "Nurse?"

"It's Mary. Watson's Mary."

"Watson? Where is he? I need Watson."

"He's still recuperating. I'm here on my own."

Holmes frowned at her. "How…why…I don't understand."

"He's so worried. He rests only in fits and starts. I thought that if I saw you and you were better…"

"Hah!" He gave a hollow chortle. "No such luck."

She looked down. "It was silly."

"His leg?"

"Improving. The wound is closing, but he's not right."

"Hmmm," Holmes scrubbed at his fevered cheeks. "He's a man of action. Needs to be up and helping."

She spotted a basin of water in the walkway between cots. She got up, dipped some rags, and returned to him.

He shook his head. "He'd never forgive either of us if he found out that you snuck into hell itself to satisfy your curiosity about me."

"Shhh!" She found that ignoring him worked far better than engaging in his verbal games.

He grabbed her wrist and hissed, "Go home!"

She pulled away from his weak grip. "You don't scare me anymore."

"This isn't about you and I. If anything happens to you, it will destroy him…especially if it has something to do with me."

She grabbed his arm and pushed it to his chest. It shocked her how easily he succumbed. "Stop fighting. I'll never survive a marriage with you and your friend without learning how to stand up for myself."

His watery eyes widened. "I don't remember being part of any engagement."

She busied herself applying wet cloths to his forehead. "Clearly, marrying John includes you. It's a package deal."

"Will you do my shirts then?"

A grin tugged at her lips. "Not until you learn how to behave yourself."

"Then all hope is lost…for my shirts."

She looked around. "John told me you'd be taking a broth, something with a smell that would wake the dead. He seemed quite confident about it."

"They have refused me. Said it would hasten my demise. Threw it out."

"John won't like that."

"Nor do I. I had faith in that nasty brew."

She stood up. "How could they refuse you? It is your right."

"Mmmm," he murmured. She noticed his eyes were closing.

"Holmes! Where can I find more of the broth?"

"The sisters…Sisters of St. Joseph. A woman named Michael…"

He drifted back into unconsciousness. She sat with him for a while, pressing cold towels on his body. And when she looked up around the room, she found them all to be so distant, so removed from the pain she could feel she could feel on his hot skin. There was no real help here. They had taken the man's broth from him, and left him abandoned in a corner where his life was being stolen from him in fevered inches. Tears stung her eyes and she scrubbed at them angrily. She realized that Holmes needed her right now more than even her dearest John.

* * *

Watson lost all semblance of patience. Mary left half a day ago for bread and hadn't returned. Her eyes always twinkled too brightly whenever he regaled her with his tales of adventure. While he couldn't quite imagine what she was thinking, he felt a sense of dread not present since Blackwood's last resurrection.

He summoned for Mrs. Hudson and soon had her ferrying supplies to his bed. It took forty minutes of gritting teeth and muffled howls before he was able to stitch close the rest of the wound on his leg. He finished with a lightheadedness that threatened his consciousness.

Mrs. Hudson generally fussed and paced, and he was about to banish her when the bell below rang. She returned moments later with Constable Clark in tow.

Watson wagged a finger at him. "I've had it up to here with you! You tell me nothing every time I see you. My fiancée left six hours ago for groceries and nary a word from her since. You better have something to say or so help me God…"

Clark took off his helmut. "Well, Sir, you'll be happy to know that I am full of information on all fronts."

"What's going on!?"

"Mr. Holmes is not doing well."

"You've been to see him?"

"No, I heard it from Miss Morstan. She is at the aid station with him at present."

"Mary is within the quarantine zone?"

"Yes sir!"

"Why?!"

"I don't know the particulars, Sir, but she's there and she's quite upset."

"She's with Holmes right now?"

"Yes sir, and she wants you to know that he is quite ill and that the doctors refused him the Catholic broth. She says he is all alone there, and needs her more than you. She says that you'll understand."

"Help me out of this bed, Clark!"

Clark gripped his helmut tightly. "Are you sure that's wise?"

Watson suddenly wrenched his leg over the side and tumbled to the ground with a thump and then a howl.

"Sir!"

Watson looked up, breathing heavy. "Don't just stand there!"

"Inspector Lestrade specifically ordered me—"

"Blast Lestrade!" Watson pounded the hard wood floor with his fist. "I will get there, Constable, with or without you. Shall I crawl or will you assist me?!"

The constable squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then muttered a curse. He strode over and grabbed Watson around the middle. "I hope you'll still acknowledge me when I'm busted back down to street copper."

"Save your tears for later, Clarky," Watson said with gritted teeth. "I got bigger things to worry about."

Clarky leaned his against the bed and without another word he threw Watson over his shoulder.

Watson howled and beat his back. "There has to be another way. I'm not some drunkard!"

The constable ignored his complaints all the way down to the wagon.

* * *

His face was too hot, and the pink on his cheeks had become an angry red. He panted more than breathed, and the cloths she pressed to his face and chest lost their cool within minutes. Twice, she called for doctors. Both times, they came, shook their heads, and told her to continue what she was doing.

He'd become prone to verbal outbursts: yelling incoherently about Blackwood, Irene, Moriarty, Queen Victoria, Gladstone, liberal chambermaids; it was obvious that no subject was sacred to him. When his thoughts turned to Watson though, his voice lowered and took more of a pleading tone. He was looking for Watson, asking for him, begging for him to come. It was clear to her that he was trapped inside a fevered nightmare full of perils and monsters and the only key to survival was Watson.

She took hold of his hand and squeezed it tightly. He tried to pull away, but she held tightly and leaned down to his face. "Watson is coming, Holmes. I promise you. He shouldn't but you need him now so very much. I couldn't in all conscience let him stay ignorant of this. He'll come. Mark my words. He'll come and we'll set this right for you. I promise you."

* * *

Last chapter on Friday


	6. Chapter 6

17

Author's Note: Sorry for being a day late. I had a migraine yesterday. Thanks to SHfan for caring enough to ask about it.

Some of you wondered about the nasty broth. In the story, Holmes refers to an old wives' tale about putting moldy bread on wounds. Holmes also learned that the broth was left to spoil twice. Remember back to science class and what Alexander Fleming discovered in 1928. The answer is at the end of the story.

Also, I told you that my real name is actually quite ironic. I'll share with you at the end of the story what that means.

Please enjoy and review. It may inspire me to write another.

Fevers

Chapter 6

He shook his head in reaction to the cold water dropping onto his forehead.

"Yes, yes. Feels good, doesn't it?"

Holmes' eyes fluttered open.

"Nice ice water. Good enough to get that fever down for a bit, isn't it?"

"Feels good," Holmes uttered through parched lips.

"Just what I thought." Watson smiled broadly.

"You're here."

"Just to see you."

"Your leg?"

Watson hesitated. The leg was certainly a worthy topic. He busted his sutures when he fell from his bed and the wound on his thigh had been swelling and bleeding ever since. "I'm feeling better, Holmes."

"I can see the tension in your jaw, the perspiration at your brow, and the way you're holding your body. Feeling better must really be painful."

Watson shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

"Where's Mary? She was here."

"I know."

"Were you harsh with her?"

"She'll not tolerate our reckless behavior without responding in kind. It's a lesson for me."

"I was getting quite used to her. Is she returning?"

"She's off to find the Sisters of St. Joseph. Left her in a hansom cab with two constables. We need some of that unholy broth."

"She's another adventurer."

"I don't know what I'm going to do with her."

"Marry her. I suspect we'll both be the better for it."

Watson smiled.

"This fever will take me."

"No, Holmes, you're fighting it. You're going to get better."

Holmes' eyes closed. Watson frowned. "Holmes? Holmes?"

Holmes sunk back into unconsciousness.

* * *

"I need more ice!" Watson bellowed to the policemen gathered at the entrance to the aid station. Lestrade and Clark came trotting over.

"Sorry Doctor, the ice is gone."

"Get more!"

Lestrade threw up his arms. "We've put out a citywide bulletin, but our sources have dried up."

"Nonsense!"

"Is Mr. Holmes improving?" Clark ventured.

"No, the fever's high. We need to cool him."

"We've asked at all area restaurants."

Watson glared at Lestrade. "It's not good enough."

"Doctor, I haven't been home in a week. I sleep in a chair. I can't remember when I last ate. I'm doing everything I can think to do."

Watson sighed. "Of course, Inspector. It's been too much for all of us. We'll not forget what you've done."

"I can't think of anything else to do."

"But I can. You have to remember that we've lost time, Lestrade. We've forgotten what day tomorrow is."

"Excuse me?"

"Tomorrow is the Queen's birthday. I would have forgot myself but the nurses were talking. Every year on the Queen's birthday, The Royale, has a midnight toast of iced champagne. They have ice."

"They wouldn't dare in the midst of an epidemic."

"It's The Royale, Inspector. Of course, they would dare."

The inspector's eyes widened. "Clark! Get 10 men and follow me!"

Watson watched them race out of the station and then he turned his attention back to Holmes. He was keeping his hand on Holmes' pulse, and it was running much faster than normal. His friend more likely had hours left than days. The fear of it gripped his gut.

He tried to focus only on Holmes, but the issue of his leg refused to be ignored. The throbbing was now joined by stabbing pain. He hadn't cut the bloody pants leg, partly because he didn't want to know and partly because he had no idea what could even be done with it.

* * *

Clark found an old potato sack, and inside he put chopped up pieces of the confiscated ice. He laid it gently on Dr. Watson's bad leg. The doctor couldn't suppress a low moan. The ice was going to be the only anesthesia he would allow himself. Finally, he let out a deep sigh and lay back in his chair.

"You could lose the leg." The voice was weak but unmistakable.

"Holmes!" Watson lurched forward.

"It does neither of us any good if you lose the leg. Go home."

Watson grabbed his wrist and studied Holmes' face. His pulse was still thready and the fever was there, but the ice Lestrade liberated was starting to cool him.

"Please Watson!"

"Hush now! I'll deal with the leg. On the scale of things I'd prefer not to lose, you rank higher."

Holmes slowly shook his head. "Don't be a fool. This fever is winning. Ice won't be enough. You know so. I can see it in your face."

"I don't know any such thing." Watson frowned.

"Let's not argue. I have things I need to say."

"Holmes."

"Watson, listen to me."

Watson bowed his head and waited.

"You'll miss me, but we're different in that I would be lost in the world without you and you will know how to carry on. You'll have Mary. You'll make new friends—"

"Stop!" Watson shook his head. "Don't do that."

For once, Holmes looked confused.

Watson wagged a finger at him, his chin trembling through his words. "Don't tell me what I'll feel. Don't you dare!"

"John, I've upset you."

Watson dropped his head for a long moment. When he looked up, his eyes were wet. "Losing you would break my heart. Don't you dare make it sound trivial!"

"I'm sorry." Holmes placed his hot, clammy hand on Watson's.

Watson wiped at his tears with his free hand. "You will not give up. I won't forgive you if you do. You have to fight. Do you hear me?"

Holmes nodded almost imperceptibly. The strain of exertion was showing in his tired eyes.

Watson held Holmes' hand with both of his. "I know about fighting. You have to block out all your fears. Just focus on getting through today. I'll be with you the whole time."

Holmes had drifted off. Watson squeezed his eyes closed and prayed for his friend.

* * *

"John."

Watson jerked upward.

Mary knelt before him. "We've come."

He let out a deep breath and looked up. Sister Michael stood before him, a pouch of broth in her hands. "Please Sister Michael, help us."

She nodded. "I'll do the best I can. The constable is bringing some boiling water. I see you've made a mess of the work I did on your leg."

The exhaustion, the pain, and the fear crowded his throat and he choked on a reply.

"Yes, I can see what you've been up to. We'll have to set this right. Move aside Miss Mary, I've work to do on your intended."

"Holmes first, Sister." He croaked at her.

Sister Michael took the soggy bag off the top of his leg. "I'll make time for both of you. I've never met such obstinate fellows as the two of you. Never."

"I'll not have it!" sounded from across the room. A white-haired doctor came striding toward them, Inspector Lestrade and Constable Clark following in his wake.

The doctor pointed a finger at Sister Michael. "I'll not have her here with potions. It's enough that I've let Dr. Watson pine over his dying friend as if there's hope. Real medicine gets practiced here. The nun must be removed!"

She stood up. "Doctor, I assure you that I am only here to help."

"You have no respect for science."

"But I do. I just believe that science is not merely practiced by White English male doctors."

Watson leaned over to Clark. "I need a pistol."

Seduced by the doctor's calm voice, the exhausted Clark reached into his jacket and handed him Holmes' weapon. Watson took it, pointed it at the doctor, and cocked it. "I'll shoot you dead if you touch him. I'll shoot you in the heart."

The room went silent as everyone stopped to watch Watson's trembling arm point at the aid station doctor. The doctor froze, his mouth open.

"You'll not touch him and you'll leave Sister Michael be."

Lestrade woke as if from a trance. "Easy now, Dr. Watson. Easy now."

Watson stared at the doctor with red-rimmed eyes, his whole body shaking.

"I'm reaching over. I'm going to help you with the pistol." Lestrade's hand gently enveloped Watson's. "We'll point it at the ground now. Then the constable will reach in and take it from us."

Watson looked at Lestrade, eyes blinking. "He'll let Holmes die."

Lestrade shook his head. "Not while I'm here. If there's any threatening to do, you'll best leave it to a professional. Now let the gun drop into Clarky's hand."

Watson's trembling hand finally released the gun and Clarky pulled it to him as if it was the most precious of jewels. The doctor leaned heavily against a post. "Arrest him, Inspector. I want him in jail."

Lestrade glared. "It's not going to happen that way, Doctor. What's going to happen is this: You'll turn around and leave us. The sister here will have access to all the supplies she needs or you're the one to be arrested. I'll see to it myself."

"I'll have your badge!"

"Well, go to it then, I have many supervisors that need contacting. Just leave us in peace. The good doctor and Mr. Holmes will need their rest now."

The doctor turned and marched away while Sister Michael opened her bag and knelt between her two patients. Mary sank into a chair while Lestrade sighed heavily and turned to Clark, taking him by the arm. "You and I'll be having a conversation one of these days about handing over side arms to desperate men, especially when either of them are these two particular blokes."

* * *

It took a few seconds for his eyes to focus when he opened them. He felt the energy to do little but blink. Speaking seemed to incorporate muscles he'd forgotten and so he waited.

Soon Mary Morstan leaned over him and shrieked. "Sister Michael! Sister Michael! I think his fever has broken!"

Mary patted his cheek softly.

Sister Michael appeared. Immediately, she had her hands on his face, checking his face, feeling his forehead. Holmes resisted the attention but the nun was insistent.

He shook his head at her and growled. "Watson?"

"Of course, where was my head?" Mary held his hand and leaned away so that he could see that Watson was sleeping soundly in the bed next to his.

"Watson?" He looked back at Sister Michael.

She nodded. "His leg is going to make it. The sutures were a mess, but I pulled those out and opened the leg again. The infection hasn't worsened. He'll just have to start over a bit."

Holmes still looked distressed at Watson's still form.

"Don't worry. I slipped him a good bit of Laudanum. He needs the rest."

Holmes relaxed back into his pillow.

"Mary, he'll need some water for that dry throat, and he's due for another dose of broth."

Lestrade came up, smiling broadly. "I could hear you clear across the room. Is this the news we've been waiting for?"

Holmes could manage little in greeting, but the inspector didn't seem to notice.

"We had a deal, Inspector." Sister Michael stood up.

"Aye, we did, Sister. Gather up your nuns. You'll have the run of the place, I suspect."

She picked up her robes and trotted for the entrance and Lestrade followed. Mary appeared again with a mug of water. She propped him up on a pillow and put it to his lips. The cool liquid was like nectar in his mouth and he reached for more.

Yelling broke out in the background, Inspector Lestrade's voice and an unknown man providing most of the noise.

He looked at Mary. "What is that?"

"Sister Michael made a deal with the inspector. If you woke after she fed you the broth, he agreed to let her sisters come in and administer the broth to anyone who will take it. The London Medical Aid Society is likely leaving in protest at this moment."

"Let them."

"Are you ready for your medicine?"

Holmes wrinkled his nose. "Unfortunately I am."

She gave him a spoonful that he swallowed without protest. "You'll be happy to know that John is back on the broth too. Sister Michael believes it might help his leg."

"Will you wake me when it's time to feed him?"

She smiled. "I wouldn't want you to miss it."

He put up his hand after a few more spoonfuls. "Are you confident that Watson is mending?"

She nodded. "I believe it now that you're awake. Seeing you will be some pretty powerful medicine for my John."

He reached for her hand. "Mary, he's the best part of our lives. There isn't another man out there like him."

"He needs both of us, Sherlock."

He nodded. "Yes."

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

* * *

He turned the corner into the room, a scowl spread across his face. He leaned heavier on the cane these days, but it was just nice to see him on his feet. Holmes was standing beside a body slumped over at a dining table.

"Watson, I'm so glad you've come. We have a case! A man was murdered during a dinner party. Poisoned, I thought. We have the guests waiting in the next room."

"We do not. You have a case. I was eating dinner with my new wife when your goons showed up and dragged me out of there like a common thief."

Holmes looked past him at Clarky. "Did you kidnap or arrest him?"

"That would be unlawful, Sir."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "No harm done then. Just needed your counsel, Old Chum."

Watson leaned on his cane and twitched his mustache. "So what can I do for you, Holmes?"

Holmes sniffed the air. "It was roast beef night at the Watson residence, I believe. Clarky, did you know that Mrs. Watson makes the most delectable Yorkshire puddings?"

The constable stifled a grin. "I have heard this, Sir."

Watson frowned. "You are at the house almost every week for roast beef dinner. What's your point?"

"Clearly, I wasn't there tonight as I have this extremely complicated case on my hands."

"The doctor's missus offered to wrap you some dinner," Clark offered.

"Yes, but I told her it was unnecessary," Watson countered.

Clarky pulled a small box from behind the door and handed it to Holmes. "However, Mrs. Watson insisted. She was most concerned that Mr. Holmes wouldn't eat."

"I don't remember that."

"You were getting your coat, Dr. Watson."

Holmes took the cloth off the box and peered in. He picked out a Yorkshire pudding and bit into it. "Heavenly."

Watson waved his cane at Holmes. "Do you mean to tell me that I was pulled from my home after a long day to provide a meal for you?"

Holmes pulled out a delicate piece of beef and began chewing on the end. "Of course not, Watson. I need you. The food is just an added benefit since you've married. Didn't realize it until I tasted Mary's food. Now be a good fellow and help me determine a cause of death."

"You said it was poison."

"Yes, yes, I thought it was poison, but now I am not sure. There is no evidence of vomiting or bleeding from the mouth. Could you have a look?"

Watson nodded. "Just a quick look and then I'll be on my way."

"Oh no, Watson, I'll need you for the interviews. Should take us most of the night." Holmes dug through the box of food.

Watson started to protest but just shook his head, went over to the corpse and began an examination. Holmes sat down next to him with his roast beef dinner. He sopped up gravy with the last Yorkshire pudding. "He has a surprised look, Watson, doesn't he?"

Watson sighed deeply. "He almost looks to have had a heart attack, but I am just not sure."

Holmes looked around for Clark. "Did you mention anything about dessert? I thought that maybe Mary had made another trifle."

Clarky piped in. "I did ask about that, Sir, but the doctor's missus says it wouldn't travel. She invites you to the house after your interviews to have a slice with a cup of tea."

"Come on, come on, Watson. We must get to the proverbial heart of this. A decent trifle doesn't sit well longer than a day, you know."

* * *

The End

Author's Note, Part II: My name is Sheila Moriarty. I loved the stories since I was a kid, and once read the complete works in a tent in the backyard when I was 12. It took me three days. I still get regularly asked if I know about Sherlock Holmes' arch nemesis, Moriarty. Contributing to that is the fact that I am currently an Assistant Professor at a state university.

The answer to the nasty broth is that it had pencillin in it. Penicillin grows in certain kinds of mold and so I added it to the miracle broth.

Take Care.


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